


Almost Pavlovian

by GenitalGrievous



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Bottom Alex Krycek, Dominance, Dominant Mulder, Episode: s10e02 Founder's Mutation, Ethical Dilemmas, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Implied Relationships, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sociopath Krycek, Submission, The X-Files Revival, implied MSR
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 11:20:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5867347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GenitalGrievous/pseuds/GenitalGrievous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slight spoiler for Revival Episode two: Founder's Mutation, Original Series.</p><p>Mulder is unexpectedly reminded of someone he used to know and takes time to unpack and acknowledge the emotions he associated with them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost Pavlovian

**Author's Note:**

> Posted with no beta, first X-files fiction in more than ten years, please be gentle, but constructive criticism is welcome and appreciated! I'd love to hear from you.

Before he could really think and ascertain the situation at hand, Mulder's cock had sprung to attention in a Pavlovian display of muscle memory. It almost hurt to stop the younger man, to draw him up and explain that Mulder was here for information, not for--Well, he should probably tell his prick that first.

It was too similar, if the situation had been completely different Mulder's body might not have reacted so--predictably, so blasé to a male advance. Change the scenery even slightly and Mulder could be in one of innumerable public men's rooms where he had met Krycek, been led by Krycek for a harried session of stress relief. If he closed his eyes Mulder could almost feel their bodies pressed together, the damp warmth of their frantic rutting, Krycek's sweat soaking through Mulder's dress shirt. He could still remember exactly how Krycek's musk clung to his clothes, for hours after one of their _altercations_.

Leaving the interview, Mulder tried to place the heavy feeling that weighed him down, it felt simultaneously centered in his head while bearing down on his whole body, like an Atlus shouldering the guilt of the world. After Krycek had died he had never particularly mourned the man's death. In actuality, he had never given it a great deal of thought to begin with. Alex Krycek had been a sociopathic prick, driving a sharpened steel awl into the fabric of his attempt at a normal life. However it hadn't stopped Mulder from getting off in Krycek's hands, mouth, and on rarer occasions ass on dozens of dark nights. 

Unwinding the heavy feeling carefully, Mulder tried to apply words to what was nagging at the back of his mind in particular. When Krycek had died, Mulder had moved on with his life. Not particularly sad, but he certainly didn't celebrate the man's death either. Not that he didn't have plenty to celebrate, Krycek had been a thorn in Mulder's side for years before Skinner finally put a bullet in him. But celebrating death had never come easy to Mulder, regardless of how much cause he had to do it. Krycek was a man after all, though Mulder had long abandoned the small belief that he had anyone that had particularly cared for him, familial or otherwise, Krycek had abandoned any shred of humanity long before they had met.

Walking through the cold dark streets by himself, hands in his pockets as he passed by revelers on their nightly pub crawls, Mulder quite suddenly reached a point of interest in his internal estimations of himself. He had come to terms long ago that he might not be a good person, he had after all committed plenty of deeds that rested in a grey area at best during his time with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, but he had never really explored the possibility that he might be a bad man. On the surface it would have been difficult for him to even approach the conclusion, how much had he sacrificed to uncover and expose the truth to the American, no, World public? However a good man would certainly take the time to mourn the passing of a--lover. A good man would certainly have thought of Krycek as a lover, thought of him as anything, an act which Mulder had tacitly avoided for the better part of fifteen years. Mulder never thought of Krycek, and that was so far-flung from what a good man would do that it definitely fell under _bad man territory_. 

However, on the other hand, Krycek certainly knew what he was to Mulder. Mulder held no doubts that Krycek had felt largely the same way about him. At the same time that he had been fucking Krycek on and off cases, in alleys and public restrooms, Mulder had been pursuing the semblances of a normal life with Scully, the same Mulder who would grip Krycek's hair in tight fists to fuck the back of his throat was the Mulder who had fathered William. That same Mulder was the one who had so rarely thought of William, nearly as rarely as he had thought of Krycek. And this realization, above all, made Mulder almost certain that he had been a bad man all along. While he had been trying to unpack his carefully hidden emotions surrounding Krycek he had given no thought to William, his child abandoned. 

Rounding the a street corner, a dingy double street lamp casting his shadow in two directions, Mulder found himself in a dead-end alley, two large dumpsters facing each other from opposite sides of the narrow roadway. A rat, large enough to be clearly visible from fifteen feet away, passed from one dumpster to the next, the rat ta tat of its four tiny feet echoing across the silent alley. Mulder swallowed, listening to confirm that he was alone. He scanned the main street from which the alley jutted off, but he had wandered away from the major thoroughfares and bar avenues into a warehouse district. He walked away from the yellow light cast by the street lamp and into the alley, lit only by reflections of light off of the iridescent puddles that filled pot holes in the cracked and worn asphalt. The smell of garbage was suffocating, it must be close to pick up day for the dumpsters, one of them was left wide open, flies buzzing and swarming around rotten vegetable matter and damp cardboard. A windowless grey metal door was almost hidden on the opposite side of the dumpster, but the building itself was silent, it was long after operating hours. 

The last time he had been alone with Krycek was in a very similar alley, surrounded by similar scents and noises, the ambience was almost identical. Behind such a dumpster humming with scavenger activity he had pushed Krycek face first into the cold brick wall. That night there had been a light rain, it had been washing down the grey exterior of the building they were hidden behind, and it had left dark muddy stains on Krycek's face and clothes. Mulder had twisted his arm a little too hard behind him, bending it at the elbow so that the back of his wrist was gripped firmly against the small of his back as he had pulled his pants down, barely having given Krycek time to undo the fly of his jeans. 

He had not always been so rough with Krycek, though they had never been given the time for a gentle coupling. There had never been a bed, furniture, any softness to their surroundings that had allowed for the luxury of consideration for Krycek's personal comfort. Mulder had always suspected that it was possible that Krycek had been accustomed to such treatment long before he had been introduced to Mulder, and that they had fallen into such a pattern without either party giving it a great deal of thought for the same reason. An unusual man to say the least, Krycek came as naturally to sexual submission as he did to killing and cunning in the field. 

Their first time had been quick, Mulder was fresh from swimming laps in the pool, one moment he had been walking alongside the swimming pool breathing in the heady chlorinated air while Krycek briefed him, and the next minute he had his back against the lockers and his dick pressing against the back of Krycek's throat. Thinking back on it, Mulder tried to remember who it was that had initiated that first contact. He remembered being irritated by Krycek, acting tough in his oversized suit, and fantasizing about punching the smug look off of his face. As they stopped at the end of the pool and talked face to face, Krycek's eyes had slowly trailed down Mulder's body, both inadvertently and reverentially, firmly resting on Mulder's half-hard dick, which must have been apparent through his red speedo. "I have to go to the locker room," Mulder had interjected into the flow of their discussion, toweling the astringent water from his hair and face, and he remembered Krycek's face going pale as he nodded.

 _I initiated it._ Mulder thought with sudden clarity. Over the years he hadn't really walked back through that first time, he was certain if he took the same steps through every coupling that there would be more than a handful of times that were initiated by Krycek. That first time however, that was on Mulder. If Krycek had been trained by the Syndicate in the ways that Mulder had imagined, if he had been used the way Mulder had always assumed, than it was only natural that he would have responded readily to Mulder's advances, without ever putting up a struggle or a question of whether it was the right thing to do. It had, most definitely, been exactly the wrong thing to do. Mulder could see that now in retrospect, and he mentally added a tick in the "bad man" column on his figurative checklist. Even a neutral man would not have initiated sexual contact at that time, and a good man would certainly not have convinced himself that Krycek had initiated the contact with his expressions and wandering eyes, that Krycek had somehow _been asking for it_. 

It was a dry night, their was no sign of rain in the sky, though few stars were visible past the light pollution of the city Mulder was fairly certain that there were no clouds covered by the orange glow of the street lamps. Leaning against the cold building, Mulder slid down into a crouch, his spine pressed tight and straight against the bricks. Using one hand to steady himself on the dumpster, Mulder tugged his belt loose, then his slacks open. He was still hard, though the need wasn't pressing at his psyche for release, Mulder had already made up his mind. He missed the danger of his encounters with Krycek, the franticness and fear that always accompanied them that someone would one day happen upon them. That, worst case, that someone would be Scully. Wiping his thumb across the tip of his cock, Mulder gathered precum and used what little there was as lubricant. His palm felt warm from having been balled up in his pocket, the touch was electric in the cold air of the alley. Biting his lip to keep from groaning against the sensation, Mulder pumped his cock hard several times, easy off slowly to keep only at the edge of coming. It had been a long time since he had thought of Krycek, Mulder had never bothered to masturbate while thinking of them since their encounters had largely served a mutual masturbatory purpose. It felt strange, but enticing to think of him. Slowly Mulder rebuilt Krycek's face in his mind, when he was reasonably sure that he could remember the structure of the other man's face, Mulder rebuilt the sensations that accompanied the memory, shifted the image so that Krycek's face was no longer resting neutrally, but was twisted in sexual arousal. 

It was surprising to Mulder that he could reconstruct Krycek's face still, there probably were not any existing photographs of the man, and Mulder had never bothered to commit every detail to memory. And yet his memory did not fail him in this regard, Mulder could remember every detail down to a small mole below Krycek's right kidney. He could feel the curve of Krycek's ass in the palm of his hand if he concentrated, the delicate skin, marred here and there with small pink scars. Mulder never asked why, he never tried to guess what sort of life Krycek had led before they had met, or what sort of life he continued to lead up until his death. Honestly Mulder knew next to nothing about Krycek. 

Except his face when he came. Every time he would jut his lower jaw out, straining the muscles in his neck, panting through his barely open mouth. His eyes stayed open until the final moment, when he would clench them shut as though to block out the excessive stimuli. Mulder pumped his cock hard, picturing Krycek's face in orgasm, squeezing his hand tight and hoping to replicate the feeling of Krycek's asshole clenching around his prick. 

They had never really talked about what they did, from the first time in the FBI locker room up until the last time in a dirty alleyway, they had pursued their separate but frequently intersecting goals. They would meet, typically accidentally, and if alone they would pursue their usual interactions. Without addressing the moral grey area of fucking what in most cases amounted to the enemy for both of them. They rarely exchanged words at all during their interactions, outside of inconsequential pillow talk. It was Mulder who spoke more often than Krycek, and passing through a brief list of the kinds of things that Mulder had frequently said to him in coitus, he was forced to admit that without knowing if Krycek was consensually involved in a dominant/submissive relationship with him that they were not appropriate things to say to another person, in sexual congress or otherwise. 

"You like that you little fucker?"

"Choke on my dick you little bitch."

"I would fuck you death if I could."

Thinking of the way the words felt as his mouth had formed them, of the way his own voice would sound if he were to speak those words again, even alone in the alleyway, and feel them rebound off of the cold buildings around him Mulder could feel his dick growing harder, nearing his own orgasm. He licked his lips briefly, closing his eyes against the sight of the empty alleyway so that he could imagine in this moment he was not alone. That he had Krycek pressed against the wall, or the filthy dumpster, that he could feel the slight warmth of Krycek's body against his, shielding his partial nakedness from the cold northern winds. 

How strange to find that after years of giving very little thought to the man with whom he had shared such experiences that he had actually harbored feelings for him. At this realization, or moreso admission, Mulder came in three short bursts, his jism splashing across a small oily puddle at his feet, white globules floating on the surface before beginning to dissipate into the brownish liquid pooled in the asphalt. Sucking the cold air into his lungs in rapid deep breaths, Mulder tucked his softening cock into his boxers, and zipped his pants with one hand. The weight that he had previously felt bearing down on his shoulders seemed to have moved and become a tightness across his sternum. Whether he had been in denial or had simply never bothered to ascertain his own emotions, Mulder felt that he had finally reached the root of his discomfort tonight. 

All along, despite everything going against them, Mulder had harbored a tiny flame for Alex Krycek, he had nurtured it without realizing it, he had protected it from the bulk of everything that Krycek had done through the Syndicate or on his own, and it had survived until all these years later.

Mulder needed to take the time to mourn for Krycek.

He needed finish unpacking his feelings entirely, without help from anyone because their relationship could not be trusted to anyone besides himself. 

He probably hadn't loved Krycek, the list of people in his life who Mulder could genuinely say he had loved, loved unconditionally, was remarkably short. But his relationship with Krycek had not been built on a foundation of nothing, and it was far past time that he admitted that to himself. 

If Krycek had been alive Mulder wondered if he would ever have admitted any of these feelings to himself, let alone to Krycek. He concluded that he probably would have not, that this emotional discovery hinged on Krycek's timely death. It did not serve to reduce the emotional burden of the realization, however. Though Mulder wondered if he had ever really thought that he could meet a person dozens of times over several years for regular sex and not develop any sort of attachment to them, in retrospect it seemed almost naive for him to believe that Krycek meant next to nothing to him. 

Standing up from his crouching position, Mulder surveyed the alleyway again slowly, taking in the sounds and smells of the dark street. He had recused himself from society for so long, thinking and acting primarily inwardly before considering the feelings of others, that it was surprising to realize that he had hidden emotions even from himself during this time. He was sharing a hotel with Scully, though they had paid for separate rooms, he got the feeling that Scully had been anticipating that one of those rooms would not be in use. Mentally discarding his checklist detailing his own perceived "goodness" or "badness," Mulder instead created a checklist consisting of three items. It was three subjects about whom he had seemingly buried a number of emotions, and each one would need to be carefully brought into the light, considered, unpacked, mourned, before being carefully replaced within his psyche.

Alex Krycek.

William Mulder-Scully.

Dana Scully. 

Without calling Scully, Mulder ordered an UberX to their hotel, entering his room alone and laid on the bed. It was going to be a long night.


End file.
